We went to see my mother. As we entered the building, a fiveyearold boy was weeping loudly.
Why are you crying? I asked.
He answered:
I came to visit my grandmother. I played in the garden and, when I returned, she wouldnt open the door.
I replied:
Dont worry, she probably went to the supermarket and will be back soon.
But the little fellow kept sobbing.
Whats your name?
Rodrigo
Which flat are you from?
Apartment eighteen
The residents of flat eighteen were new to us, so I didnt know them. I rang the bell, but there was no answer. I couldnt leave the boy standing in the hallway.
Come on, Rodrigo, youll be my guest. Ill leave a note at your grandmothers door.
We reached the house. While my husband kept him company, I wrote a slip: Rodrigo is in apt. 28. I went back downstairs and slipped it under the door.
Back at home, Rodrigo was already playing with my son using toy cars. Everything seemed fine.
I washed his face and asked:
Would you like some vegetable soup?
Id like it.
He grabbed a bowl in an instant.
For the second course, we have meatballs. Want some?
I want them.
His appetite was vigorous; he swallowed two meatballs at once.
Do you prefer jam or juice?
Tea.
I was surprised, because at five years old I would only drink tea if there was no jam.
We sat down for tea with a cookie cake while Rodrigo and my husband chatted about important topics like car brands and their speeds.
My mother arrived home. I explained that we had a small guest.
Thats odd, she said. In flat eighteen lives a woman your age.
I didnt find it strange; a fortyyearold can easily be the grandmother of a fiveyearold. My mother accepted my reasoning and joined us in entertaining the guest, bringing a box of toys that lifted the fun even higher.
About an hour later, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find a woman my age standing there.
Good afternoon, she said. I came from work and found this note. Could there have been a mixup with the apartments?
It struck me as odd that she was coming from work and that the name Rodrigo meant nothing to her.
Didnt you lose a grandson? I asked.
I dont have any grandchildren yet, she replied.
Something didnt add up.
I returned to the living room. Everyone was busy: my mother was stacking blocks in a toy truck, my husband was tying a rope to a toy, and Rodrigo, the boss of the operation, was giving orders.
Rodrigo, I called, sitting next to him where exactly did you come from to visit your grandmother?
From Lisbon.
Do you know your home address?
He recited street, number, and flat.
And your grandmothers address?
He gave the street name, and everything made sense.
In his play, he moved from one courtyard to another. When the other kids left, he thought he should go home too. The houses looked identical. Instead of his grandmothers building, he ended up in ours.
Someone knocked on the door, but no one answered, and he panicked, beginning to cry again. I gave him a toy car as a gift, lifted him onto my lap, and we went looking for his grandmother, who must have been worried.
In the neighboring courtyard we heard a voice shout:
Rodrigo! Rodrigo!
We ran toward the sound and saw a woman my age, clearly upset.
Is this your grandson?
Yes, it is!
Relieved, she embraced us. We explained what had happened and everyone laughed. The grandmothers laugh was a little nervous, because she had been genuinely terrified.
For Rodrigo, the whole episode was pure funhe now had a new car. While she thanked us profusely, we left before she could continue in tears.
We turned back when we heard:
Rodrigo, come to lunch; you must be hungry.
Ive already eaten, he replied, sliding the car across the floor.
Hes already had his meal, I confirmed, turning away first course, second course, and tea.
What a surprise! she remarked. He never has an appetite; we can barely get him to eat soup.
I raised an eyebrow, remembering how much he ate at our house. He waved his new car and shouted:
See you tomorrow! Ill be back!
